


Chelsie Challenge and Other Writings

by olehistorian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 19,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olehistorian/pseuds/olehistorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompts inspired by chatelaine on Tumblr. I will not do them all but a few of them throughout the month. These will be 500 words or less. Ratings subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

With efficient and practiced ease, she makes her rounds. Her stride is easy without the ring of keys jingling at her hip and softly, contentedly she sings a song from her homeland. She is free to do that now that she is mistress of her own house. She finds that she sings more often and their house is filled with song, gentle conversation, and easy laughter between husband and wife. Elsie finds this man she lives with is much different now that he is no longer Butler. His step is lighter, his countenance brighter, less strained. His romantic heart beating freely, unfettered.

Elsie Carson runs a slender finger across window casements, mantelpieces, and tables making sure that they are free of settled dust. Each guestroom is spotless. The cupboards aired and dusted. The beds made with a lovely duvets and crisp white sheets tucked into perfect corners. The bedside tables have fresh flowers from the garden, tended by Charles' hand. She reaches bends, plucks up a few stems, and rearranges them until she is satisfied. The gauzy curtains glow a milky yellow as the sun breaks through the windows. Shadows of tree limbs move across them like dancers across a stage as the breeze blows gently outside. The leaves will be falling soon.

She hears a knock at the door, his footsteps cross the floor, and the door opens. As she makes her way down the stairs, his deep voice drifts through every nook and cranny of the house. She brushes her hands across her dress, an old habit when she is nervous or excited, and steps toward her husband.

"Please meet my wife," he says smiling, introducing their first guest to her.


	2. Accusation

Elsie sees the blood drain from her husband's face. Watches his lovely brow knit into a knot of anger as his face become thunderous with barely controlled fury. Charles tosses the rest of the post down on the kitchen table and clutches one envelope between his thumb and forefinger as she watches as his eye bathe over the return address. When he finally looks to her, he takes a deep breath, presses his lips together tightly before speaking; the cleft in his chin pronounced from the pressure.

"This is highly improper," he finally spits out. "How long has this been going on?"

Elsie places her teacup on its saucer, pushes it gently aside; she folds her arms across her chest defiantly. "Whatever, are you on about?" she asks incredulously.

"This!" he tells her, waving the envelope dramatically. "It is highly improper for a married woman to correspond with a man. Especially one who asked her to marry him. Twice!" She watches as Charles puffs out his chest like a peacock on display as he tosses the envelope bearing Joe Burns name onto the table.

Elsie cannot but help roll her eyes at the theatrics of the broad man who stands in front of her. Style and show. More show, now days she thinks. Hmmphf. "If I had corresponded with Joe, there would be nothing improper about it," she snaps back. "But I assure you that I haven't." She and Charles look at one another in silence for a long moment. A stalemate before she challenges, "Read it for yourself. Go on. I dare you."

Why must she dare me, he thinks. Infuriating woman. Charles snatches the envelope from the table and rips open the flap. He tears the letter from its confines and unfolds it. Elsie glares at him as she sees his face transform from righteous indignation to shame and embarrassment.

"Well?" Elsie asks.

"Well. Ehm, he says congratulations on our marriage. He found out from some mutual friends and got our address from Mrs. Patmore. He wishes you…us…every happiness," Charles finishes quietly as he folds the letter and places it back into the envelope. He clutches the back of a kitchen chair; his head hangs low. He cannot meet her gaze.

She begins to walk past him just as she had so very many times at the Abbey after a heated disagreement. Charles gently catches her wrist and she pauses, yet neither looks at the other.

"I'm sorry Elsie. I don't know what came over me," he admits. When she fails to give him the absolution that he seeks, he loosens his hold on her. She walks away. He knows that her temper will cool, that they will make amends. That she will forgive him; that she likely already has.


	3. Restless

Charles Carson lies awake his hand pressed into his belly; his stomach knotted with pangs of regret and remorse. He feels that he might retch any moment, can feel the bile climbing into his throat the acidic taste burning his tongue. His wife is rolled onto her side facing away from him and the chasm between them feels greater than third meter that separates them. He looks to her, sees the soft roundness of her shoulder, the plait of her hair hanging over it; the gentle curve of her hip, her bottom, the length of her leg. He kicks off the covers and darts for the bathroom, throws open the toilet lid, and heaves. Nothing. He pulls a flannel from the cupboard and runs it under the cool water from the tap, wrings it out, and rubs it across his face. The man who stares back at him from the mirror above the sink is worn, ashamed, and fearful.

Elsie Carson has not slept. She is laying awake, nerves frayed, the atmosphere between them more than she can bear. She has forgiven him but is not ready to talk about it. Knows that it is jealousy that caused him to say it. Jealousy. Something that she does not understand. Except perhaps once if she is honest with herself. She was jealous of Haxby Park. Of the little minx who wanted him to leave Downton. To leave her. She hears him in the bathroom but does not go to him. Not this time. He has hurt her badly. He has said things in the past, told her that she disappointed him, that he didn't think that she was a woman of no standards, but this, this was….. And then she hears him shuffle down the corridor to the kitchen. She hears a chair scrape against the floor and him sigh heavily as he sits down. The house is stone cold silent except for….she sits up, listens. Her feet hit the floor and she shutters for a moment, the cold sending pain through the delicate bones.

She finds him staring into the abyss. His face crimson and twisted in anguish, wet with tears. He looks up to her and she is with him instantly; cradling him to her breast, his tears flowing into the soft fabric of her nightgown. His shoulders shake in release and she weaves her fingers through his hair to soothe him.

"I understand if you want to…." he begins before she cuts him off.

"….I am not her," she tells him emphatically. "I'll never intentionally hurt you. And I'll never leave you."

He lifts his head to find kind eyes, forgiveness, and love. He knows that she means what she has said. She pulls back, reaches for his hand, and tugs gently.

Soft sheets surround them as they bare themselves to one another in every way a man and a woman can bear themselves. Gentle caresses lead to words of repentance and acceptance and renewal of vows of devotion and love everlasting. Gentleness gives way to electricity and thanks to heaven above; the crying out of her name, of his. Homecoming. Healing. Ghosts of the past exorcized.


	4. Before The First Snowflake Falls

"Ahhh," Mr. Carson breathes in deeply. His hands clasp firmly behind his back, he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, pride playing across his face as he watches their young charges. This is the last winter that he will watch Downton's staff enjoy snow for in a few months he will take the woman standing beside him to their new house. The one he bought for them, registered in both their names. Joy fills him as he thinks that when the next snow falls, they will be in their home, together by the fire. He pictures her curled into him, watching from the window in their sitting room as pristine snowflakes settle to the ground.

"It's a good thing you've done, Mr. Carson. Allowing the younger staff the time to enjoy the snow," Mrs. Hughes says with a smile in her voice. Two weeks ago, she would have never believed that this would be the last winter they will spend at the Abbey. The last winter she will send young housemaids bundled up in coats, scarves, and mittens out into the cold and watch as they frolic in the snow. As they scamper, not too quickly, from the hurling snowballs thrown by the young hallboys. As they cry in feigned protest when the white bombs burst into powder on the backs of their coats. She smiles as she watches this wintry mating ritual. She will miss these youngsters but her mind, her heart, her body longs to be with him, for the next snow. Cocooned in their home, in his embrace, as the winter winds blow.

He mentions that he loves winter, which she finds infinitely odd. Winter is cold, she tells him. Barren, without color or life. She sees him more as a spring or a summer soul, she says. Someone who relishes the bustling activity of life's renewal; the comfort of knowing that God is in his heaven, order restored from the desolation of winter.

"I think for me, it's that moment before the first snowflake falls. When the air is crisp and cold. When I take that first breath, it clears the soot out of my lungs. It pushes out the fallen leaves of autumn and hints of new things to come."

"My, my Mr. Carson. You are quite the poet," Mrs. Hughes says admiringly as she looks to her beloved before once again casting her gaze to the young people out in the gardens. As she watches, pulling her coat tighter to stave off the chill, memories come flooding back as if it were yesterday. She thinks back on reaching down with small hands into fresh white powder, scooping it up, watching it fly through the air like sea spray. Of the winter she was eight and her father taught her to ice skate on the frozen pond near the old farmhouse. Years later of the day she arrived at Downton, snow falling gently, and the Butler meeting her at the back door. She doubts he remembers. Why would he? She was only the new head housemaid then.

"Well, you see Mrs. Hughes," he says turning to her, "winter is special to me in a way."

"Oh?" she asks, her eyes meeting his, anticipation electric.

"If I tell you, you won't think me too sentimental?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head gently. "No," she whispers.

"There was one February day, much like today, when I was taking in the winter's air. It was very cold and the first snowflake fell and then another and before long, well, snow began to cover the ground." She closes her eyes. He remembers. When she opens them she sees something in his, a memory of yesterday, anticipation of things to come. "Off in the distance I saw a figure, a woman walking toward the house carrying a bag. She cut a striking figure, Mrs. Hughes. A striking figure." Charles unclasps his hands from behind his back and touches the small of her back. "With the snow falling around you like that, you quite took my breath away."

"Mr. Carson…."

"So, you see, Elsie, winter isn't all desolation. Not for me," he tells her. "The first snowflake that winter brought me…you."


	5. Haze

A/N: This one is different from the others. A bit of an experiment in stream of consciousness for our Butler. In addition, there are two different versions. I think that you will see what I mean. I had two different trains of thought so, I thought that I would write both. So, if you aren't so pleased with the first, perhaps you will like the second. Thanking you in advance for reading.

A/N 2: The words in italics are words that Carson might say to himself – inner dialogue.

A collar that is too tight. A tug of the waistcoat. A glance at his pocket watch. Charles Carson waits at the front of the church for her and his mind is a muddle of thoughts. A haze of soft, pictures, snapshots in time, that overlap as if dropped into a box. There is no rhyme nor reason to them and he cannot control them. Cannot control how they drift in and out or where they land. He is a bundle of nerves and knows that all of their eyes are on him. Knows that they are watching for his reaction, to see if he will gasp for breath when he sees her or if a tear will roll down his cheek. He is waiting and his mind is racing faster than his heartbeat.

She's late. She's never late. What is taking so long? Everything was arranged last night. They told me so. Competing visions of shifting sand beneath bare toes, cool water lapping against bare ankles. Cloudless sky and the call of seagulls. A new blue sweater. A lovely straw hat. A soft, warm hand. Touch. Dashing away with a smoothing iron. She stole my heart away. I cannot sit here much longer. A lovely green coat; a night at the village fair. A farmer who proposed. So you won't be leaving us then? "Leaving? When would I find the time?" Relief washing over insecurity, over fear.

You do if you think that I am asking you to marry me. A promise exchanged; her hand smoothed across sleeved arm. "Of course I'll marry you. I thought you'd never ask."

He looks around the church; looks past the flowers that were snipped from Downton's gardens, past the familiar faces of their friends, finds the face of his favorite. She smiles reassuringly. Everything will be all right she seems to say. He smiles, nervously. Thank you, milady.

The snapshots come floating down like snowflakes, perfect in their singleness, hazy in their flurry. Two sherry glasses sitting side by side. A toaster. "A treat for myself", she had said. Smoke billowing from her room. A sand bucket in hand. Laughter. Her laughter. Twas a Monday morning, when I beheld my darling.

A trip into the village. "An errand I have to do for myself." Polishing silver. Waiting. Relief. A picture frame. A gift. A wound stitched up. A postcard on a notice board. A season in London. A business venture. A confession. A house. A deed with two names. No need to change a plan.

"Mr. Carson, we are ready to begin," he hears the vicar's voice softly in his ear and feels the vicar's hand on his shoulder. He nods, steadies himself as he stands to his feet; a tug at his waistcoat. "If you will follow me."

He follows the vicar through the arched doorway and into the courtyard. Anna approaches him, puts a hand on his arm, much the same way Elsie does…did. "Are you all right, Mr. Carson?" She asked him the night Lady Sybil died. You see I knew her all her life.

"Mr. Carson…did you hear me?" Anna asks again. He has not heard her. He can only hear her through the haze of his grief. He only wants to hear Elsie; his other way.

"What?" he asks. "I'm sorry. I beg your pardon."

"I asked if you are all right. You can go back into the church if you want to. John and I will walk in with her," Anna answers sweetly. So much Elsie's girl. So very much.

He forces a smile and thanks her. I must do this; I must not disappoint her. He feels Anna's petite hand tuck into his elbow and John follows behind them. Mrs. Patmore finds them and takes her place. He feels empty. Incomplete. That his family is locked in a wooden box about to be received by the vicar. But her voices breaks through the haze that clouds his mind and it is her voice that jars him from his grief. "Our family." They take their places behind those who will escort her today. Mr. Branson has come from America, Alfred from London, Mr. Molesley, Mr. Barrow, Andy, and young Jack Bates.

He thinks of the first time he saw her come down the aisle of this ancient church. Cream wedding suit. Lovely smile. "From this day forward." I do. I thee endow. And now, this, the last time. He hears the vicar speak but cannot make out the words instead he is reminded of something she said long ago; something he overheard her say for someone else. Something he says for her today. The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone and I am weeping.

Version #2

A collar that is too tight. A tug of the waistcoat. A glance at his pocket watch. Charles Carson waits at the front of the church for her and his mind is a muddle of thoughts. A haze of soft, pictures, snapshots in time, that overlap as if dropped into a box. There is no rhyme nor reason to them and he cannot control them. Cannot control how they drift in and out or where they land. He is a bundle of nerves and knows that all of their eyes are on him. Knows that they are watching for his reaction, to see if he will gasp for breath when he sees her or if a tear will roll down his cheek. He is waiting and his mind is racing faster than his heartbeat.

She's late. She's never late. What is taking so long? Everything was arranged last night. They told me so. Competing visions of shifting sand beneath bare toes, cool water lapping against bare ankles. Cloudless sky and the call of seagulls. A new blue sweater. A lovely straw hat. A soft, warm hand. Touch. Dashing away with a smoothing iron. She stole my heart away. I cannot sit here much longer. A lovely green coat; a night at the village fair. A farmer who proposed. So you won't be leaving us then? "Leaving? When would I find the time" Relief washing over insecurity, over fear.

You do if you think that I am asking you to marry me. A promise exchanged; her hand smoothed across sleeved arm. "Of course I'll marry you. I thought you'd never ask."

He looks around the church; looks past the flowers that were snipped from Downton's gardens, past the familiar faces of their friends, finds the face of his favorite. She smiles reassuringly. Everything will be all right she seems to say. He smiles, nervously. Thank you, milady.

The snapshots come floating down like snowflakes, perfect in their singleness, hazy in their flurry. Two sherry glasses sitting side by side. A toaster. "A treat for myself", she had said. Smoke billowing from her room. A sand bucket in hand. Laughter. Her laughter. Twas a Monday morning, when I beheld my darling.

A trip into the village. "An errand I have to do for myself." Polishing silver. Waiting. Relief. A picture frame. A gift. A wound stitched up. A postcard on a notice board. A season in London. A business venture. A confession. A house. A deed with two names. No need to change a plan.

"Mr. Carson, we are ready to begin," he hears the vicar's voice softly in his ear and feels the vicar's hand on his shoulder. He nods, steadies himself as he stands to his feet; a tug at his waistcoat. "If you will follow me."

He stands straight as an arrow in front of the congregation, in the presence of the vicar, and God. He is dressed in his new blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie. He breathes in deeply, pats his waistcoat, feels the circular piece of gold that is tucked away safely in the pocket there. He turns just in time to see her at the back of the church, bathed in sunlight. And he hears them; the audible and collective sigh of the women. Bloody hell. He realizes that his mouth has dropped open. He has never seen anything more beautiful. A cream suit. So very different from the blacks and grays she normally wears. She has never owned anything like it. A gift from Lady Grantham. She is stunning and the breath leaves his lungs. "Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Had a wife?" He remembers to breathe. I do want to be stuck with you.

A hazy blur of ancient scripture, words, and promises. "I will….To honor and obey." "With all my world goods I thee endow." A ring slipped onto a finger. A kiss. Another sigh from the women. A wedding brunch. An endless line of well wishes and congratulations. Yes, thank you. We are very happy. All still a haze and all he thinks of is her. A lovely cream suit. A brilliant smile. Their house. As he watches her across the room, she catches his gaze and smiles. He lifts a glass of wedding punch to his lips and cannot banish the thoughts from his mind. Snapshots of stockings lovingly peeled from freckled legs. A corset unfastened. Pins falling from her hair. A shift lifted. Knickers drifting to the floor. Sweet kisses. Passionate ones. A tangle of limbs. Legs. Hands roaming. Homecoming. Suddenly the haze lifts. He is married to this woman. This woman who is a mystery he will likely never solve. Will spend the rest of his life trying. He sets the punch cup down and makes his excuses to those around him. Suddenly, his hand is smoothing across the cream fabric that covers the small of her back and he is discreetly in her ear. Suggests they make their way home. His implication is not lost on her and he feels the heat rise from her body and mingle with his own. The hazy veil of singular life lifts and that of two made one begun.


	6. Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Definitely going M rating here. It is a continuation of the second version of "Haze" from Chapter 5. If the last chapter was from Charles' perspective then this is from Elsie's. I have a music recommendation while you are reading: Norah Jones' Turn Me On, is an excellent companion piece for this little reading. You can find it on YouTube, Spotify, or your platform of choice.

The flame of desire burns hot between them. That which has been the kindling of friendship, the smoulderings of flirtation, roars to life now as they give in to thing that has hung in the balance between them for so long. The thing dampened by duty and service. A firestorm of passion overtakes her, sweeps her up as her husband's fingertips flicker over her skin; skin that craves touch, has craved his touch. His lips against her neck, whispering words of love, devotion, and desire sets her aflame with want that only he can quench.

She had thought a proposal at her age unlikely; passion unthinkable. But he has proved her wrong and the heat that passes between them now as he tenderly maps every contour, every curve and dip of her body is undeniable. His lips moist and supple seek purchase over her shoulder, over her collarbone, and she breathes heavy knowing that he wants her in the way that a man wants his woman, his wife. Not out of obligation nor companionship but out of burning, consuming desire. And her breath hitches as he reaches her breast, lavishes it in kisses and she can feel his tongue worshipping her. This man, so ordered and traditional, burns hot for her and she clutches at his shoulder with one hand and cards another through his hair. She pulls him up to her, searching his eyes, finds them black as soot with lust, and she claims his lips.

When the kiss breaks, he smiles against her lips, and tells her that she is beautiful. She hasn't been told often, but she believes him, knows that he isn't just saying it because she is laying here naked beneath him, her skin pressed beneath his. And suddenly, she feels the friction of their joining and out of habit pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A question is asked, an answer given.

Her hands sweep along his thighs, his back, and she marvels at the strength there. Yet in his strength he is gentle with her, tells her that she is everything to him. As gentleness gives way to frenzy, she calls out his name, please… yes…. god… I never thought. There is ecstasy and rapture in one and as he falls against her, her face rests in his shoulder, his weight welcome against her. And she realizes that this is a flame that time will never snuff out, a fire that that she never wants quenched.


	7. Formal

Charles Carson is worried; tossing and turning in his singularly small bed in the attics. The bed that is too short for him; the bed that if he stretches completely out, his feet will hang over the end. He folds his pillow again; this time in half and tucks his hand underneath. He has folded it at least three other ways but cannot seem to get it right and even the bed covers are a right mess. Grumbling and huffing to himself, he throws the covers back and sits on the side of his bed, his feet squarely planted on the floor. His hand brushes across the scruff of his neck and he shakes his head in disbelief. I do want to be stuck with you. Hmmphf. What kind of proposal is that? She deserves a formal proposal and you tell her you want to be "stuck" with her.

Restless, Charles decides to retreat to his pantry for a cup of tea and to form a plan to propose to Mrs. Hughes, again. To make a formal proposal worthy of her. As he winds his way down the servants' staircase his mind runs wild with accusation. She always has to read between the lines. Why can't you just say what you mean? A business venture? Business venture. Hmmphf. Knowing the whole time, you could buy the house on your own. All a plan to retire together. With her. Married. By the time that he reaches the servants' corridor, he has worked himself into quite a state when he sees a light coming from the kitchen. Pausing, he wonders who might be up at this hour. Surely not Mrs. Patmore; she rarely leaves her room once she retires for the night. Most of the younger staff stay in their rooms as well. He and Mrs. Hughes make sure of that. He realizes that the only two who burn the midnight oil are…

"Mrs. Hughes what are you doing up at this hour?" he asks catching her off guard.

"Well, I was making a cuppa Mr. Carson," she replies sweetly. "You see I couldn't sleep."

"Um, well, yes, neither could I. May I join you?"

"Of course. You needn't ask," she assures him as she places a teacup in front of him. As she readies the tea things, she senses the butler's stiffness and decides to inquire as to the reason for his sleeplessness. "Mr. Carson, why is it that you cannot sleep?"

She watches as Charles begins to gesture nervously, choose his words carefully. She places her hand on his arm, much as she had earlier in the evening. Now she hopes to soothe him and give him the confidence he needs to tell her what he needs to say. "Mrs. Hughes," he finally manages, "I have done you a disservice."

"A disservice?" she asks with a tilt of her head.

"Yes. I should have, what I mean to say is…." and Elsie watches as Charles begins to drop to one knee but before he can, she stops him.

"Mr. Carson is that what is worrying you?" she smiles tenderly.

"You deserve a formal proposal, Elsie," he tells her.

"I wouldn't know what to say if I didn't have to read between the lines," she laughs before turning serious. "Not everything has to be style and show, Charles." They look at each other a long moment the energy between them electric.

"There is one, other thing," he remarks.

"Yes," she answers a little breathless.

"Another formality that I think is in order," his voice rumbling low.

While the housekeeper never received a "formal" proposal from the butler, they did enjoy one of the pleasures of becoming formally affianced as he pulled her close to enjoy their first, chaste kiss.


	8. Companion

Approaching the housekeeper's sitting room, Mrs. Patmore stopped. Gripping a little tighter the tray that she held, she watched as the housekeeper stood behind a folding table, carefully wrapping brown paper around a picture frame and then place it into a box. The old cook's heart stirred more than she'd expected. From her vantage point in the corridor, she watched the fluid movements of housekeeper as she moved about the room gathering things collected over her years in service. A framed silhouette of herself as a young woman, some books, and letters that she'd saved. A small, white porcelain box.

"I thought you might like a break," Mrs. Patmore managed, nudging the half-closed door open and lifting the tea try a little higher in offering.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I'm sure that Mr. Carson would like to join us as well, I'll just go fetch him," the housekeeper said as she began to move past the cook.

"Um, well, before you do, I was hoping that we might have a minute together," the cook said with uncertainty. The housekeeper noticed the apprehension on her friend's face and ushered her in, offered her a seat at the small table where they had so often taken tea together. "Her Ladyship gave that to you didn't she?" Mrs. Patmore asked flicking her eyes to the little porcelain box.

"She did," she housekeeper acknowledged as she began to sort the tea things. "It was the first Christmas after I'd been promoted to Housekeeper. It was the most expensive thing I'd ever owned," she laughed. She noticed the frown on Mrs. Patmore's face; it was unusual to see the cook so unhappy. "Mrs. Patmore, why the long face? Are you upset with Daisy about something?"

The cook looked down into her tea that the housekeeper had prepared perfectly. A splash of milk and one sugar. She wondered how the housekeeper kept the minutest details straight. She supposed, for a moment, that it was her job to remember things about people. Their likes and dislikes. The things that made their days brighter or when they needed encouragement. But realized quickly enough, that it was the character of the woman not her position that made the difference.

"It's not Daisy, the reason I am upset," she finally answered.

"No?" the housekeeper inquired, though not wanting to press.

Mrs. Patmore placed her teacup on the table and folded her hands in her lap. "I'll be all alone." she finally admitted.

The housekeeper's face melted into sympathy at the confession of her old friend. "Mrs. Patmore, you'll not be alone, you have all of these youngsters about, and Daisy…"

"….Daisy! Who knows how long she'll be here? With all her learnin'," the cook cried.

"Oh, Mrs. Patmore, surely you'll be ready to be rid of Mary Queen of Scots," the housekeeper attempted to tease before tears filled her own eyes. The two women looked at one another a moment.

"I did think you bloody imperious."

"And I thought you loud and stubborn," the housekeeper laughed as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"We've made a good team, 'aven't we?" the cook mused. "Never thought we'd become friends…companions."

"But we have, Mrs. Patmore. On all acocunts," the housekeeper admitted as she took a sip of her tea. Mrs. Patmore reached into her apron pocket and fished out bundle of cards tied with twine. She pushed them across the table to the housekeeper. "What's this?"

"Just some recipes that you and Mr. Carson enjoy," Mrs. Patmore answered as she watched the housekeeper thumb through the cards. Watching as the housekeeper looked over each card, Mrs. Patmore became worried. The housekeeper had gone silent; her jaw set, lips pressed into a deep set, straight line. "I didn't mean to suggest that you can't cook, 'cause I know that you can. Oh, Lord, I'm sorry, if I have offended you….."

"…Mrs. Patmore, you've not offended me," the housekeeper looked up from the stack of cards she clutched in her hands. "You've included every dish that Mr. Carson and I love. This is the most thoughtful gift," she assured the cook, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages.

"It doesn't measure up to porcelain boxes I'm afraid," Mrs. Patmore demurred, casting her eyes to her lap.

The housekeeper reached across the table to pat the hand of her friend. "You're right Mrs. Patmore, but it is the porcelain box that doesn't measure up."


	9. Move

As Carson surveys his pantry, it seems surprisingly the same as it had the day he moved into it. The desk has changed; that had been his first order of business on assuming the room for his own. Mr. Brown had used an old roll-top model that stood pressed against the far wall. The desk's upper cabinet was full of pigeonholes and the old butler stuffed every paper he had, it seemed, into them. Carson thought that they looked like dead leaves about to fall from a tree at the end of autumn or unruly children hanging off carousel horses at a fair. Carson laughs to himself at the memory of sending the hall boys up to the attics to find the largest, but most appropriate, desk they could carry down the stairs. He then stood back as they arranged it several times until he was satisfied that its position in the room gave him the best vantage point at which to look commanding, imperious. Style and show. Even with the arrangement of his tools. Every item set with measured care. The stamp box, the ink blotter, the inkwell. All of it carefully arranged. The Book of Common Prayer that had been his mother's. All of that now packed, just this morning. All of those memories carefully wrapped and boxed away by two young housemaids.

He fingers through the boxes that sit on the empty desktop now. Two boxes that contain the personal possessions from his pantry, of his life as Butler. He picks up a book, examines the spine. Dracula. He shakes his head fondly. She had gifted it to him one Christmas and dared him to read it. Told him to let his mind escape into pleasures of dark fiction. To get his nose out of military history, Burke's peerage, and to read just for the enjoyment of voyaging to another, perhaps darker world. He opens the cover to find the inscription still crisp and clear, years later. All of his books are still pristine. Not a page turned down to mark a favorite passage nor a bookmark stuck inside. He thinks of how he used to bristle when he saw her mark her place by turning down the corner of a page. He chuckles at the thought now. Thinks of how his perfect books and hers with dog-eared pages will sit side by side on their bookshelf at their home. He feels the corners of his lips tug into a soft smile.

"Are you ready for us to take those, Mr. Carson?" he hears Andy calling from behind him. Broken from his thoughts, he ushers Andy and a hallboy into his pantry, steps aside as they gather the boxes. He takes one last look around and no, not much has changed.

"A penny for them," her voices caresses his ear as her hand slips into his.

"I thought this day would never come," he replies, sounding a little more melancholy than he means to. He feels her hand squeeze his gently. "I didn't mean it quite that way."

"I know," she assures him. "Come on, best be getting home, Mr. Carson. They've work to do." He closes the door behind him. Knows it will be the last time that he does so as Butler. That in an hour or so the guard will change, that Mr. Barrow will be the one sitting behind his desk. Or perhaps, he too, will select a new one. Have Andy and the boys bring it down from the attics. Stand over them while they arrange it just so.

As they pass by the kitchens, she pauses, tells him to wait. "Mrs. Patmore, have you a moment," she inquires.

The cook looks up from her task, finds the couple standing before her. Wonders how this will go, their goodbye. She's tried to push it out of her mind. She'll miss them, the burly man who has held her hand in sickness, brokered peace when arguments over store cupboard key erupted, infuriated her over war memorials. And the housekeeper, her unlikely friend. A precarious bond borne of close quarters and necessity. A deep friendship, tempered by age, wisdom, understanding; unshakable now. "You're on your way then?" Mrs. Patmore manages, sniffles already rising in her throat, tears pricking her eyes.

"We are," Mrs. Carson replies. "Now, you know we are not far away and Mr. Carson has installed a telephone so that you can call if you need to. And you are always welcome…" Elsie falters; a hand flies to her mouth.

"….anytime, Mrs. Patmore," he finishes the words his wife cannot manage. "Anytime."

"Thank you for that," she replies, taking a flannel from the pocket of her apron and wiping her eyes.

"Well, then," Elsie all but whispers, thorough a veil of tears. She embraces the cook, hugs her fiercely, determined to make sure that she knows how much she is valued. As they break apart, Elsie casts her eyes back to her husband who seems deeply embarrassed. She laughs and the tension breaks. "I'd better be off before he's completely mortified by all this sentimentality." Charles rolls his eyes and begins to protest but thinks better of it as she tugs at his hand again.

"Off you go, you two," the cook waves her chubby hand.

As they begin to walk away, Elsie stops and turns. "Oh, Mrs. Patmore. I left something for you. It's in my sitting room. Wait until we've gone and then go find it."

After they have left, made their final goodbyes and received well wishes from the staff, Mrs. Patmore makes her way to the housekeeper's sitting room. Mrs. Baxter hasn't taken it over yet and it is still empty of any personal effects except one smartly wrapped parcel on the desk and a letter leaned against it. She opens the letter and reads many of the sentiments that she knew the housekeeper might never be able to tell her in person. How lost she would have been without her support during her health scare, how she enjoyed their little gossips, how she remembers their first real row over the store cupboard key. How if she had another sister, she would wish it to be her. That she knows that she and Mrs. Baxter will work well together. That some changes are to be made but that Elsie believes she will approve. She leaves the cook one final instruction. To open the package.

As the ribbon falls away and the paper is unwrapped, the lovely white porcelain box comes into view. Tears fill the old cook's eyes, not because she had admired the box and her friend thought to give it to her but for what was instead inside it. "Mary Queen of Scots," the cook muttered fondly as she tucked the key inside her pocket.


	10. Silver

She'll not begrudge the gentle snoring nor the murmurings he makes in his sleep, not so long as she cradles his head on her breast and his hand is wrapped around her hip; it means he is happy, content and all is well. Her fingers play through his hair, though she is careful not to wake him, because she covets this time in when he is asleep and she can study him. Study his features, the thick dark lashes that she wishes she had; the slope of his nose; how his ears draw to a slight point. The prodigious brows that have, from time to time, furrowed in confusion because he did not understand her and then softened when he finally did. The shoulder that aches when rain is coming; the one, she rubs liniment into and presses a warm flannel onto while his sits in the bath.

He startles a bit and she worries that she has awakened him, but realizes that he is simply dreaming. She makes out the words "ring the gong," "get that upstairs," "Mrs. Hughes," and she smiles. He still calls her that sometimes. She doesn't mind, not really. As he shifts, he pulls her closer and a sliver of moonlight peeks around the drapes and catches the silver in his hair. She reaches down and drops a kiss to his there, her fingers glide across his chest and shoulder.

She thinks of the silver strands in his hair, the marks of a distinguished man. How they add an air of respectability. That he has earned them. That he is more handsome now with graying temples and filaments of silver shining through the black. And suddenly she thinks of the silver threads that have bound them together through the years. The smell of silver polish that will always remind her of him. The silver platter he'd been holding that night in the dining room when she thought she might lose him, dropped to the floor. The one that he polished as he sang for her. That he tossed it into the air amazes her still. The silver frame with a woman's picture in it. The bandage for a stitched up wound.

She looks to the band on her finger. The one that he placed there. The one with no beginning and no end. And the moonlight reflects off it too, casting a hard, brilliant silver spark. Her husband shifts again, murmurs her name, and draws her hand into his. She feels his thumb brush across her ring. Threads of silver, unbreakable.


	11. Prepared

He prides himself on being prepared for any occasion, on of being a step ahead of the next man. On having the ability to read a room with a glance. To anticipate the needs or desires of his employers before they know themselves. A well-placed guiding hand here, a cup of tea perfectly prepared; being inconspicuously present when needed. A talent that makes him good at his job. Ensures that should he ever need a new position, one will be waiting. He has turned down plenty of offers throughout the years. Offers from larger, more prestigious houses trying to pinch him from Downton with lures of more money and plays to his vanity with dreams of serving at a finer house. He has never considered any of them; he's only ever considered leaving Downton once and that was to go to a considerably less prestigious house. One bought with new money in a man's vain attempt at respectability. He'd have only gone then to protect his favorite; to prepare her for her new life. Set up her house and help her to manage it. He had prepared himself to leave; reconciled himself to the fact that for her he would leave the only place that he ever truly called home. He thanks heaven above that he never had to.

No, he's nothing if not practiced, prepared. Except for this.

This fluttering in his chest; the soft thumping occasionally racing out of control like a steed charging toward the finish. This knotting of his stomach; a sinking feeling, though not necessarily unpleasant. He wonders if he is ill. If he is taking flu or perhaps overworking himself again. But he has two footmen and even though Molesley grates on his last nerve and he bristles at James' preening smugness, they are efficient, capable, and things are finally running smoothly again. Mr. Barrow is managing to stay out of trouble and now that Miss O'Brien is gone, he has not found anyone else with whom to conspire. Yet.

Lady Rose's coming out has been an unqualified success and he cannot remember a London season that he enjoyed more thoroughly. Even the trip to the seashore, though he at first felt defeated, he looks back at it with fondness. All had a good day and he has lived a little at Mrs. Hughes' gentle urging.

No, everything is running like a well-oiled machine.

Perhaps he is ill. This must be the explanation. The heart flutters. The odd sensation in his belly. He looks at himself in the small mirror above his mantle. Checks his eyes for signs of illness. They are not red and there are no dark circles under them. He sticks his tongue out; sees no white spots or red ones for that matter. His cheeks are not flushed and he has not a fever, he thinks. He lifts a hand and touches the back of it to his forehead and it feels cool. But how can one judge one's own temperature that way? Perhaps he will ask Mrs. Hughes to be the judge. And there it is again. The flutter in his chest, the stomach twisting into a knot, and he notices his cheeks flush a peculiar shade of crimson. Maybe a visit to Dr. Clarkson will solve the mystery of this illness that plagues him. These strange feelings that come and go.

"Mr. Carson, I have tea ready if you'd care to join me," Mrs. Hughes calls as she enters his pantry. He turns around and suddenly his heart is beating in his ears. He feels a bit dizzy, off kilter. He'll need to tell Dr. Clarkson about this; add it to the list of symptoms that seems to be growing by the minute. He nods, smiles. Of course, tea will be nice; perhaps settle his stomach. "Are you all right?" she asks with concern. Her eyes narrow as if she is examining him.

"Yes, why?" he responds as she moves closer.

"Well, you haven't seemed yourself since we returned from London. If you're ill…."

"…..Well, I do feel a bit…" he begins but before he finishes he feels her hand pressed against his forehead.

"You aren't feverish," she states, drawing her hand away slowly and it comes to rest on his forearm, a gesture of concern.

"No, I suppose not," he says quietly realization dawning. She is standing very close and the fragrance of rosewater fills his senses. Her eyes are so very pretty and blue and remind him of the summer's sky that day he took her hand; the day he agreed to live a little. His eyes draw downward to her mouth, her lips. He thinks of what it might be like to feel them against his own. And the flutters return, the ringing in his ears, a flush across his cheeks.

"Mr. Carson, are you sure that you are all right?" she asks again, her fingers squeezing his arm firmly. "If you'd like me to ring Dr. Clarkson…"

"No, Mrs. Hughes," he assures her covering her hand with his own. "I think that I will be just fine." He wants to tell her that Dr. Clarkson has no remedy for what ails him. That there is no magical preparation for the chemist to compound. That only she has the cure.


	12. Knowledge

Mr. Carson distributes the morning post with practiced efficiency. Miss O'Brien has a letter from home. Likely from her sister who is expecting again. Another girl probably. This will make four in a row. Or is it five? He honestly cannot remember. Pities the woman's husband if his wife and their daughters are anything like the lady's maid. It is not as if Sarah O'Brien is all bad because she isn't. She is very good at her work and he respects that. But she can be vicious especially when she is huddled with Thomas and they are conspiring about one thing or another. There are letters for Anna, Mr. Bates, one for Thomas. Two for Mrs. Hughes. He notices the name Burns on the return address on one of them. Wonders why on earth the man would continue to write to a woman who has refused him. Twice. Perhaps it is to tell her that he has married again.

As he sits at the head of the table, he opens the letter from Duneagle. The one from his old friend the valet to the Marquis of Flintshire. He enjoys hearing from Mr. Alerdice whose letters are sometimes peppered with gossip from the Highlands or from wherever the family is stationed at the time. From Mr. Alerdice, Carson has learned of the inner workings of the foreign office, the indiscretions of officials both major and minor, and tidbits from the marriage of the Flintshires. He knows that Hugh MacClare, Laird of Duneagle, has a mistress whom he sees regularly when he is away from Duneagle and that it is an open secret. That no one cares except his wife who is a shrew and has driven him to it most people say. That she forced him from their marriage bed after she had done her duty and borne him three children. Carson bristles at the idea of infidelitiy. Though Susan Flintshire is a shrew, Carson cringes at the notion that anyone can reject their vows, throw over someone to whom they've made a commitment. Even though they had no understanding, the pain of Alice Neal is still very real to him.

There is no news of the Flintshires in this letter however, and Carson is secretly thankful. Though not above enjoying a bit of gossip himself – in fact, he and Mrs. Hughes often discuss village matters or even matters of the house late at night over glasses of sherry– he does see the Flintshires when they visit every other year. Even though he finds Lady Flintshire exasperating and Laird Flintshire quite personable, he still would rather not have so much intimate knowledge of their marriage. Mr. Alerdice's letter contains the usual pleasantries, inquiries of well-being, and he asks after Mrs. Hughes. As Carson's eyes scan over the words, he falters. His hands grip the page just slightly tighter as his eyes reflexively narrow. His tongue darts out across his lips to moisten them as they've gone dry.

He cannot believe what he is reading. He glances to the woman at his right. She is reading her own letter. The one from that famer. She's smiling slightly, has a pleased look on her face. The farmer has likely remarried Carson thinks. Hopefully, there will be no further letters from Joe Burns. He looks back to the letter from Mr. Alerdice. Scans it again to make sure that he read it correctly and the words are the same as he read them the first time. Anger rises within him. He wonders how many people know of this tawdry lie. For it must be a lie, this disparaging blight on his favorite's name. He knows of everything that goes on in this house. He looks to Mrs. Hughes again and this time she looks up at him. Asks him if the letter brings bad news. He fumbles a moment, wildly waves his hand, and makes a flimsy response.

"No, everything is fine, Mrs. Hughes. Just a letter from a friend," he says with a forced smile. "Mr. Alerdice. I think you remember him. The valet to Marquis of Flintshire? He inquired as to your health?"

"Of course," she replies over the rim of her teacup. "I do remember him well. That was quite kind of him."

For a moment, Carson wonders if he should ask her if she has a moment. If he should show her the letter and inquire as to her knowledge of this…this situation. After all, she too has knowledge of everything that goes on in this house that they preside over together. She has her spies, ehm, her maids, he thinks. And Anna? Mr. Alerdice writes that Anna helped to move the body. Surely, Anna would have told Mrs. Hughes about this if it were true. Wouldn't she?

He looks to Miss O'Brien and Thomas. They are founts of knowledge. He wonders if they know. Mr. Alerdice writes that it is a rumor but Carson knows that where there is smoke there is likely fire. He wouldn't put it past one of these two to have started it. They are always looking to start trouble.

His heart sinks that this rumor may be true. He knows that Lady Mary is high-spirited, capricious, and she had been dangerously flirting with Mr. Pamuk. And Carson has been around long enough to know what happens at dinner parties. He thinks back to the peculiar way that Daisy acted over the Turk's death. Yes, peculiar indeed. This is knowledge that he wishes he does not possess. A letter he wishes he had never received. Gossip about other families is enjoyable. Gossip about one's own is sickening. He is in a quandary as to what do.

"Mrs. Hughes, I need your opinion on something," he begins. "Might I see you in my pantry when you have a moment?"


	13. Denial

The weeks go by and Elsie watches him. Watches him as he sits next to her in church, touching her hand, his little finger entwined with hers or as he gives instructions to the workmen making the repairs on their cottage. He is so very proud of the home that they own and makes sure that she knows her opinion matters. If she was ever in denial of his sincerity about their retiring and leaving the Abbey behind, reality washes over her in these moments and sweeps those niggling doubts away.

They spend their half days here at the house on Brouncker Road, but today they have managed a whole day away from the big house. The workmen finished early and have returned to their business at the estate and they are finally and blissfully alone. A pear tree in the garden blossoms and they spread a blanket there; she makes them sandwiches, pours them milk, and they finish their little meal off with a piece of apple tart. The day is tranquil and they enjoy the spring breeze that swirls around them as the pear blossoms float around them like a spring snow. Her hair is looser and the breeze catches up wisps of it now and again. He sees the girl of her youth running carefree among the heather. He leans over to pluck a bloom from her hair and steals a kiss. She smiles against his lips, calls him a rascal. He is easier now, since their engagement. He has removed his tie and collar is open, his coat shrugged from his shoulders. She so very thankful that she's not been denied the chance to see and know the man behind the butler. She laughs at the notion that the others wouldn't believe he could be so carefree.

He packs away the basket, moves it aside, and draws her close. Feels something different about her, a softness that hasn't been there before. He notices that she leans into him more, easier now that the stays of her corset aren't digging into her. He wraps his arms around her and leans his head against hers, whispers into her ear that he can hardly believe that this is theirs. She wonders for a moment if he means only the house. But the gentle, warm kiss she feels against her neck tells her that he means more than just the house. That he means this thing that they share between them. This thing that he had denied them for so long.

She turns in his embrace and cups his cheek, presses herself against him. Finds herself wanting to do all sorts of things that a respectable woman ought not to want to do in broad daylight let alone on a blanket in her garden. But she has been denied all these years. Her eyes are pleading and her kiss insistent. He cannot resist the feeling of freedom on this spring day. The stone wall that surrounds the garden is tall and the gate is locked. There is no corset to separate them and she is warm and soft and he feels things that he hasn't felt in years. The softness of a woman's breast, a hip, her curves pressed against him. He can deny her no longer if she wants him. If she wants this.

His mouth is on hers and her hands are on the buttons of his shirt working them loose. They are to be married on Friday and they are married in their hearts anyway so what will it matter? She pushes his shirt open, smoothes her fingertips over the light scattering of hair there and drops a gentle loving kiss to the scar she finds on his collarbone.

But her mother's voice rings loud and then she hears her own. The words that she has spoken so often through the years to so many housemaids and she kisses him and she pulls back. Looks up to him and smiles, shakes her head, tucks her lip between her teeth. He smiles in understanding. She pulls his shirt back together, fastens the buttons, and thinks that she would like to help him with this after they are married.

Friday. After Friday, there will be no denial of what they both want.


	14. Wind

"It's very nice. Very nice indeed," Mrs. Patmore remarks as Elsie shows her around the house. This is her first visit to the Carsons' new home since they have moved in as a married couple. She's admired the kitchen, even helped to get the cupboard up to snuff, and passed some of the gently used utensils, pots and pans from the Abbey to her friends. Elsie has shown her the washroom and the bedrooms. Talked of the family with three children who will be arriving in a fortnight. Beryl cannot help but notice the blush rise on the housekeeper's face as they come to the last bedroom. The one Charles and Elsie occupy. The room is well appointed with a chifferobe for Charles things, a dressing table for her, a chest of drawers, a lovely antique bed and a exquisite counterpane draped across it. Beryl watches as Elsie's eyes flicker across the bed and then quickly away. Definitely, the blushing bride, the cooks chuckles to herself. But Elsie chats on, never rattles. Beryl is happy for her; happy for them. She sees the difference that the changing winds have brought.

xxxxx

"Well, Mr. Carson is very proud," Elsie replies with a soft smile. "And I must say that I am quite pleased." She pushes a teacup toward the cook and urges her to take a biscuit from the nearby plate. "It was his idea to put this little table and chairs out here in the garden. We sit out and have tea here on nice days. He put in a swing just there," she says proudly pointing to a swing opposite from the little table where the sit.

"Yes, it's very nice. I just may do this at my place," the cook replies. "And you say that Mrs. Baxter helped with the drapes and coverlets and such?" she asks, blowing a cooling breath across her teacup.

"Mmmm, yes, she was very kind to help. Though where she found the time, I'll never know," Elsie answers as she nibbles on a biscuit.

"So how did you come by the name?"

"Oh, you mean Pear Blossom Guesthouse? Well, it's the simplest thing really," Elsie insists. "Mr. Carson came up with it."

The cook spluttered her tea in disbelief. "Charles Carson came up with a flowery name like that? I had him for something more like 'Carson Cottage' or 'Brouncker Road Hotel'." Both women dissolve into a fit of giggles. Elsie admits that Mrs. Patmore has a point; her husband isn't the most poetic of men but she insists to the cook that he did indeed name their little venture without her assistance. "I don't believe it," the cook cries in laughter.

"Well, he did," Elsie joins in. "If you only knew," she mumbles under her breath, thinking that her friend has not heard her.

"Wha…what'd you say?" Mrs. Patmore turns suddenly serious.

"I said that he did name the place," Elsie replies, her countenance giving nothing away.

Waggling her finger at her friend and shaking her head, she'll not let Elsie off lightly. "No. After that."

"I not sure what you mean," Elsie maintains, hoping that Mrs. Patmore will decide to drop the matter. She looks down into her lap, she begins to wring her hands together, and realizing what she is doing she stops and clasps them tightly together.

"'If you only knew.' That's what you said," the cook insisted with a knowing look. Over the years, she had learned when her friend tries to hide something.

"You must never tell him," Elsie begins as a smile begins to tug the corners of her mouth up. "One day, before there was any furniture at the house and after the workmen had finished for the morning, Mr. Carson and I enjoyed a picnic under the pear tree just there." Elsie turns her gaze to the pear tree standing proudly in the corner of the garden, its limbs heavy with glittering green leaves. "Well, the wind picked up, more of a spring breeze really," she remembers with a smile. "And pear blossoms filled the air. 'Like spring snow' Mr. Carson said." Mrs. Patmore watches as the housekeeper's eyes crinkle along the edges with at the memory. Elsie pauses, tries in vain to suppress a bright smile.

"But that's not the whole story, is it?"

"Mrs. Patmore!" Mrs. Carson tried desperately to deflect the cook's attempt at wedeling more information from her. "No," the housekeeper softened, "it's not. One of the blossoms settled in my hair and Mr. Carson leaned in to pluck it out and…."

"….he stole a kiss didn't he?" Mrs. Patmore finished with unabashed glee. "Romantic devil."

"Yes," she replied quietly. "But, I assure you that he was a perfect gentleman."

She'd never tell her friend that she'd almost given into temptation under the old pear tree that day or that she had given into temptation there, on a blanket, with her husband not long after that day. As pear blossoms swirled around them and her wedding ring caught in the sunlight. No, that story was hers alone to treasure.


	15. Order

There are no butler books to keep, no wine ledgers to check, columns to add and check against one another. No deliveries to meet at the back door. Bottles of wine to catalogue away in the cellar of the Abbey. There are no orders to give to hallboys or footmen to train. No need to keep Mr. Barrow in check. No silver to polish or inspect for the minutest of scratches. No clocks to wind, though that is the business of the footmen or Mr. Barrow. No stairs to climb, plate to set, to measure precisely; dinners to preside over. No drinks to pour, glasses to refill. No coats to remove or to place on shoulders again. No galleries to walk, lights to switch on or off, locks to secure. No small singular beds in a small attic room. No more quick raps on the door by a housemaid in the early morning that starts it all over again. No, Charles' days are no longer ordered by the house he once served.

For Elsie there is no more sitting squinty-eyed over the linen rota or the household accounts ledger, the endless tallying of figures and reconciliation of them. Columns running together as the nights wear on. No walking of the galleries and the rooms before the family wakes so that she can search for errant specks of dust on mantelpieces, tables, and chandeliers. No adjusting menus at the last minute or the cataloguing of the store cupboards. No bending over the deep sinks of the scullery, teaching a young maid how to scrub a stain from a tablecloth.

She does not miss the lack of light in her sitting room or that the bathroom that she shared with a handful of other women. She does not miss that her job dictated that she wear the same two dark dresses day in and day out. She relishes that she can wear a bit of color now. She certainly does not miss the corset that pinched her in everyday of her life since she was a young housemaid; it was the first thing that she tossed out when she retired. No, Elsie's life is no longer ordered by the house in which she once served.

Instead, Charles and Elsie's days are ordered by the sun's soft rays peeking around the drapes in their bedroom. By Charles' hand curled around his wife's hip or his gentle kiss against her neck. Her hum of appreciate or smile at the tickling sensation his lips cause as they nip just there.

Their days are measured by breakfasts at the little table in the garden where posies grow in beds in nearby and ivy reaches out wildly from the stone wall. The roses, he has planted for her, bloom tall and proud. She is sure that they will show well at the annual flower show. He potters around in the garden shed while she tidies the house and when she is done, they will take a walk. Perhaps into the village, peruse the shops, visit with friends. Perhaps the walk through the village green, pass by the war memorial, pay their respects to William Mason. They wander farther down; visit the Philpot boy's marker.

The twilight that settles in peacefully orders their evenings. The washing up of the supper dishes and the drawing of a warm bath. The newspaper article that he reads to her while she repairs his socks or writes a letter to her sister. Their evenings are measured not by the ticking clock that sits on the mantle but in the gentle music from the wireless; and when she can convince him, his hand along her waist, their hands wrapped tightly together as they dance together in the quiet of their house.

And the nights, their nights are measured against the tender cool glow of moonlight. Ordered, by devotion and desire. Love and passion. By the meeting of man and woman. Unhurried. Unfettered by constraint.


	16. Thanks

The first emotion that washes over her is denial. Denial that the strong man who is in the next room over buttoning his shirt, fixing his tie, and slipping on his waistcoat and suitcoat, is quietly slipping into an abyss from which he cannot return. She hears Dr. Clarkson speaking but the words do not register yet. They will tomorrow perhaps or next week when her husband asks her the same question for the third time or forgets, again, where the tooth powder is. The words that Dr. Clarkson is speaking may as well be in a foreign tongue because she cannot make them out from the jumbled thoughts running wild through her mind.

She stares ahead, nods in agreement when the doctor makes suggestions. Try to get some extra help. Yes. Perhaps a nurse to look in. Yes. Take time for yourself. All right. Dr. Clarkson asks if she wants him to know. If she wants her husband, the man whose broad shoulders held up a manor house for over thirty years, to know that his mind will fail him long before his body gives out. That he will be frustrated when he cannot remember the day of the week or what day cricket season begins. That he will, one day, forget the way to the village shoppes or why he wanted to go into the village at all. And that one day, he will look upon her face and not remember her name or who she is.

The doctor tells her that it will be easier if she allows him to do it; to break the bad news. She debates it, wonders if the doctor even knows what he is talking about. He is after all a country doctor, a retired military man who probably should be retired by now. However, reality sets in and she knows that his diagnosis is correct, knows that the man she loves and knows will no longer be the same. She politely declines, tells the good doctor that she will break the news herself. Perhaps on a quiet day, in their garden as they sit beneath the flowering pear and enjoy a nice sherry.

He asks her how she will cope. How she will handle the specter of seeing her husband through such a trial. Elsie Hughes lips draw into a sweet smile, as she sees her husband walk through into the doctor's private office. She offers her hand as he takes the chair beside her. She finds her smile met by one of her husband's. "With thanks," she says, eyes twinkling and then turning to Dr. Clarkson.

She will thank God above for every time that Charles remembers to butter her toast or bring her a perfect cup of tea at just the right time. Offer thanks every time her man calls her "Sweetheart" and pats her bottom as she walks past or reaches for her hand on their way to church. When he remembers the words to the hymns or when he remembers some obscure fact from Burkes about one of the families visiting at the Abbey. She will offer up a chorus of praise for every moment she spends with him, good, and bad and in between. For theirs has been a blessed life and for that she will offer thanks.


	17. Look

Perched on a stepladder, Elsie Hughes arranges drapery in one of the guesthouse's bedrooms. In a few weeks' time, their first paying guest checks in and she is determined that everything will be perfect, every detail precise. Theirs may not be the largest guesthouse in the county but it will be the tidiest and the most welcoming, she and Mr. Carson will make sure of that.

"Well, let us have a look," a deep voice from behind her beckons.

"I don't know how, but you've managed to make that sound a little risqué," she turns, smiling at the man who stands in the doorway.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes, I….I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…to…" Charles flusters before she puts him out of his misery.

"Don't fret Charles, I was only teasing," she laughs. "Come and see what you think. Miss Baxter did a fine job with these. She really is a talented seamstress," Elsie comments as she turns back to the drapes and runs her hand admiringly along a seam.

Charles moves toward her as Elsie chatters on about the quality of the fabric. About how she brokered a deal with the supplier as the material was left over from a job that he had done for Mrs. Crawley. Charles hums in agreement. She comments on the quality of Miss Baxter's workmanship; how, if she wished she could strike out on her own and open a shop, do very well for herself. Elsie sighs a moment, remarks that she always saw Anna as her successor, how she had groomed her to become housekeeper but that she believes Miss Baxter more suited for the role now. That Anna seems to like her position as lady's maid and that it allows her and Mr. Bates to travel together more often than not. Elsie natters on about how she believes that Miss Baxter may well prove a worthy successor when they retire and that it pleases her that the transition will be seamless.

"Well, what do you think? Do you like what you see?" Elsie asks with a smile as she half-turns back to Charles.

"Very much so," Charles answers, his voice deep, smoky. Elsie notices the rise and fall of his chest, the deep intake of breath, the way he licks his lips, the way he is looking at her hers.

"Charles….."

"Hmmm….."

"I asked what you thought of the drapes," she asks again, turning fully toward him, her height now even with his.

"What?" he asks, as he places his hands around her waist. He can feel her breath against his lips, the heat of the blush that has crept across her neck and face radiates off her.

"You didn't even look at them. Did you?" she asks, her face moving closer to his, their lips almost touching.

"No," he answers in a whisper. His heart beats wildly in his chest and he wonders if she can feel it. He wonders if, as she looks into his eyes, if she knows how desperately he wants her. Not just as companion, someone to grow old with, to mark time with; but someone to love, to hold and cherish. Someone with whom to join and with whom to become one. Someone to make him whole. Not just any someone, but her. Always her. Only her. Forever her.

"What is you want, Charles?" she finally asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"May I kiss you?" he asks. She smiles against his lips.

"I thought you'd never ask," she teases as she leans into him, kisses him. This the first kiss in their house. Their house. The house on Brouncker Road.


	18. Summer

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, wildflowers dance in the meadow, roses open their blooms, and the fragrance of freshly mowed grasslands fill the air. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the eldest one is content in her station, content to mother her son, content to embrace her birthright. To become a caretaker of bricks and mortar, gutters and pipes. Heritage and family. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the middle one is happy, her child now her own, no longer a secret, a shame to be hidden. She is happy to be loved and to love in return. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, the sun shines brightly down along the path to the house, the one registered in two names, the one on Brouncker Road. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, there is a spring to his step, a lightness to his mood, as he approaches, sees her waiting there. Waiting for him to come home to her, home to stay. When there are no more early mornings to separate them or late nights she waits up for him. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, she awaits him, standing at their doorstep, awaits the moment that he will join her. She welcomes him, takes him by the hand, leads him inside, closes the door. Kisses his cheek and brushes her fingertips along his hair. The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey.

The summer the Butler leaves the Abbey, they are content, together in their days now, now that he is free. Free to embrace her, to take walks along the path to nowhere, the path to anywhere, the path to everywhere.

The summer that the Butler leaves the Abbey.


	19. Transformation

As the singing continues, Lady Mary notices the butler and the housekeeper quietly slip back into the hall. She does not wonder where they've been. Assumes that they've been taking care of arrangements, making sure that things are taken care of, that people are taken care of. After all, that is what they do best; take care of people. Though she and the housekeeper may not always get on, she does admire that - the ability to be selfless even if she cannot be. As she looks out over the crowd, the deep baritone of Carson's voice rings out over all the others and he sounds…he sounds positively jubilant. She searches for him and finds him standing next to Mrs. Hughes, who looks positively triumphant. She's not seen the housekeeper smile as brilliantly since before Detective Vyner began snooping around the Abbey. Just then, Mrs. Hughes looks up to Mr. Carson, her eyes twinkling. Carson's lips turn up at the corners, a smile strains to break free, and then finally it bursts forth.

As the singing ends, Mary continues to watch them. Moving side by side, they make their way through the crowd of tenant farmers, gardeners, hallboys, and maids. She watches as they chat with friends and acquaintances and she hears their simultaneous laughter. His deep and rumbling, hers throaty with a little giggle in it. She sees Mrs. Hughes look again to Carson, then dip her head slightly down, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. Mary thinks that Carson must have forgotten himself as he places a hand on her elbow and steers her away, toward a far corner of the room past Daisy and Mrs. Patmore.

They always stand in the corner of the room, after they've made their rounds, ensured everyone's comfort. They stand in the corner of the room and observe but Mary notices that this night, they are different, transformed. Standing close beside one another, they chat quietly. Mrs. Hughes smiles again and looks down at her shoes, touches the back of her hair with a hand as if to smooth it. Mary sees Carson smile again, tug at his waistcoat, a sign of his anxiousness that she recognizes. Carson and Mrs. Hughes turn toward one another just slightly, and Charles pulls his pocket watch from his pocket, flips open the top and closes it again. A whisper of something passes between them.

And Mary bears witness to the transformation. The thing that she has long suspected and heard whispers of has happened. That thing that she and Anna teased about in their youth and sometimes even now has come to fruition. Anna has always told her of their late nights talking, discussing matters of the house while nursing small glasses of sherry. How they move in unison throughout the downstairs corridors, their steps in perfect time; a dance of domesticity. Anna's told of their bickering and their arguing. Of how Mrs. Hughes has nudged, pushed, pulled, and dragged him out of the past and into the present. She's told Mary of how distressed Mr. Carson is when he is in disagreement with the housekeeper, how he is melancholy and irritable until they've patched things up. How the housekeeper used to have a withering glance and a sharp word of retort for his stinging words, but her silence and a sad expression move him to repentance now.

As Mrs. Hughes' hand comes to rest on the butler's arm, Mary's heart swells with pride. Of all the Christmas gifts that she is to receive, she will remember this moment as her one of her fondest. The transformation of butler and housekeeper from friends and colleagues to something so much more.


	20. Tremble

She hands him the punch cup and he takes it, holds it with two hands, for he is trembling. He fears that he will falter, that the cup will fall to the floor. Shatter to into a million pieces, into sharp shards and bits so small that they will never find them all. He has laid his heart bare before her and does not know what he will do if she refuses him. That like the cup he holds, his heart is simultaneously strong yet fragile, and she holds his heart in the balance. He fears that if she doesn't want him, doesn't want the life he's offering, he will shatter, his life will be like splinters of glass scattered across a floor to be swept up and tossed away. He's told her that he will not press her, will not demand an answer, but his heart thunders wildly in his chest and he feels like a young lad anxious for his lass' acceptance.

Despite himself, he asks her, needs a confirmation, needs to right himself among the tumult of emotion. Then, before he knows it, she is moving closer, assuring him, confirming that she accepts him, that she always would have. As his heart thrums in his chest and tears pool in his eyes, his lip begins to tremble. Trembling now not out of the fear of rejection but out of pride and happiness, triumph and elation. To know that she has been waiting, standing beside him the entire time, waiting for him, moves him to a crescendo of emotion. The thrilling possibility of what is to come is almost too much. Then, he feels the steadying calm of her hand on his arm, her thumb sliding gently across burning a path warmth through his coat sleeve.

Suddenly his trembling turns to tranquility.


	21. Sunset

As the sunset settles across the horizon, painting the sky with glorious brushstrokes of cerulean, heliotrope, coral, and amber, they stand here with the others, watching. Almost numb with disbelief that this is happening again in their lifetime. She prayed then that they would never play witness again to this heartbreak. They have all been told that the world is supposed to be a more civilized place, a place of progress, a time when tragedy of this nature should be a thing of the past.

She looks out over platform, sees the scurrying of men into carriages, sees baggage being loaded, and women wiping their tears from their eyes. She hears the piercing cries of little babes, their mothers holding them close. Her head shakes slightly in disbelief, that this is all a horrible dream a nightmare. She feels his hand on her waist, gentle pressure pulling her toward him. He has found the family; they are just this way, he tells her. She knows that he is anxious, but he will not falter, will not give himself away because Lady Mary needs him to be strong, needs him to be her support as he always has been. And she needs him, especially now.

The young man in the olive uniform turns; he looks so much like his father, Elsie thinks. All blond hair and blue eyes, but she knows that he is his mother as well. Strong and cool, intelligent. Young George Crawley extends his hand to Charles, shakes it firmly. Charles wishes him well. Tells him things that his grandfather might, if he were here to do so. George bends, draws Elsie into an embrace, and kisses her cheek. His father's son, she thinks fondly. Kind, thoughtful, sincere. She tells him to take care of himself, to try to stay from harm's way. To write to his mother, to them if he has the time.

The station attendant calls for the passengers to board and the Carsons step back, allow the family to say their goodbyes. Charles keeps a steady eye on Lady Mary in case she should need him. Elsie tucks her hand inside her husband's elbow, keeps her eyes on him, in case he needs her.

The train filled with men pulls away into the distance.

The beautiful sunset over Downton belies the storm clouds that are gathering over Europe.


	22. Mad

Elsie Hughes watches as Charles Carson descends into what can only be described as a state of madness. She watches as he bustles about his pantry; invoices, books, and ledgers compiling them all on his desk in neat organized stacks. He frets over each one of the stacks, rifles through the invoices one by one, scribbles down notes, adds, and then re-adds the figures. Ticks off those that he has paid and those that are due, makes a note of them on a piece of paper; his list of items to check and things to do growing lengthier with each passing moment.

She watches from the doorway as he opens the wine ledger, watches his lips move as he adds the columns in his head, scratches down notes on the paper, and huffs in dismay. Finally, watching him work himself into a state, she can take it no more.

"Mr. Carson, what on earth has gotten you into this state?" she asks slight bemusement.

He looks up briefly from his work; his large hands splayed wide gesturing in frustration, "I must have everything laid out properly before we leave. I cannot rest easy if it isn't," he confesses.

Elsie smiles, which frustrates him all the more. He fails to see the humor, he tells her. He closes the wine ledger with a thud and places it to the side, rubs his hand across it. Immediately, she feels compassion for him, her husband-to-be. This man who has devoted his life to the house, to the family that occupies it. In two sure strides, she is beside him, her hand atop his.

"Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow is as ready as he'll ever be," she assures him with a gentle squeeze of her hand.

"You're sure? Because I am not so confident," he says a little sadly.

"Yes, you've trained him well and despite his shortcomings, he's a fine worker and I believe that Ms. Baxter will be able to keep him in check." Elsie moves her hand from his and brushes her fingers against his cheek. "I'll not have you worrying yourself when we are about to be married."

Charles leans into her embrace and wraps his hands around her waist pulling her close; he rests his cheek against her head. "You are right, Mrs. Hughes," he agrees, his voice deep and rumbling. "I cannot allow this to drive me mad."

"No," Elsie purrs against his chest. "I have other things in mind," she whispers bewitchingly.


	23. Thousand

Charles Carson sits at his desk, working on the ledger, dragging his pen across rows of numbers, adding receipts, subtracting numbers, balancing accounts. Though the numbers are not as great and the receipts are not as numerous as those he dealt with at the Abbey, the guesthouse does well for them, and he hums a happy little tune as he calculates his figures. Dashing away with the smoothing iron. As he adds, subtracts, and reconciles, he reflects on the woman in the next room. He listens as she sings an old hymn, one with which he is familiar, has sung many times himself. A hymn of thankfulness and her lovely voice carries throughout the house and as she sings of faith and thankfulness, he thinks of how thankful he is for her. Of the thousands of ways that she makes his life better.

Always one for numbers he leaves the ledger for a moment and pulls a piece of scratch paper over onto where he is working. He begins to figure a new sum, to think back on how long they have known one another and he smiles; he has known her 9,131 days. He thinks of the first day he met her, the high-spirited Scottish lass with high cheekbones and a confident stride. He cannot say that he was smitten with her that day. No, not if he is honest with himself. Intrigued perhaps.

He makes a few more scratches onto the paper, crosses them out, and figures again until he has it right. On day 3,652, she asked him if he had ever thought about going another way. He remembers not exactly answering her. He was intrigued by her then, but could not bring himself to admit it. To tell her that he had indeed thought of another way, with her.

He adds again. On day 6,572 he pauses, he learned that she was ill. He lays the pen down and pinches the bridge of his nose tightly. He hears the her singing of thankfulness in the next room as she bustles about, preparing luncheon but the memories of that time come flooding back washing over him anew. The prospect of losing her afresh. The agony of her closing him out, of his not having any right to press her into telling him so that he could comfort her. Of not being able to walk with her into the village that day. Of being able to hold her hand while she waited for the news of whether or not she would live or die. He knew that he loved her then. On day 6,634.

He pauses, hears her signing her praises to the Almighty, thankful for all that He has bestowed and Charles smiles, picks up his pen, and figures again. Day 7,670. The day he finally plucked up the courage to hold her hand, when he finally expressed that he had more than a passing interest in her as more than a friend and confidant. He laughs to himself, now. Old fool. Couldn't tell her that you loved her. But he hoped that she knew, that she understood. Because she always understood him; could always read between the lines of what he could not say.

Day 8,217! He places an exclamation point by the day and writes next to it "Proposal." He caps the pen and places it down beside the paper. He smiles in satisfaction. Finally did it old boy. Asked her to marry you. He pushes away from his desk and goes in search of his wife. Finds her in their kitchen, scrubbing a pot. He reaches for her, wraps his hands around her waist, and leans into her soft form. Nuzzles into her neck, his breath warm on that spot just near her ear. He tells her just a few of the thousand things that makes her special to him. She smiles, asks him what's gotten into him. He says nothing, nothing at all. Tells her that if 9,000 more days pass between them or a thousand years pass between them that he could never be thankful enough for her. His wife.


	24. Letters

Elsie Hughes holds pen to paper, black lines scrolling and curving onto the white paper, as she writes. She is writing a series of letters, one has Her Ladyship's name on the envelope. It details Elsie's plans of retirement, of her thanks for the opportunity to serve as Downton's housekeeper for the past two decades. For the opportunity to oversee the running of such a fine house and that she will be happy to help select a replacement; she recommends Miss Baxter. Elsie has included a few of the details of her retirement with Mr. Carson, but nothing overtly personal. Those things are hers and hers alone. There are letters for others, a few friends who are housekeepers at other houses, and other friends scattered around the county. Then there are letters for those she loves, those she is close to, those who hold special places in her heart.

She wishes that he were not leaving, taking Sybil's child with him. The little girl whose infectious smile lights up the Abbey like the Christmas lights on the tree in the Great Hall and whose laughter fills the house where so much sadness has been the past few years. She is fond of the pair of them. Perhaps she is more than a little fond of the young man whose revolutionary ideas set the house on edge, drove Mr. Carson to distraction below stairs, and divided the family upstairs before he won them over. She smiles. Laughs a little to herself; perhaps Mr. Carson is right; maybe she does have a heart for the misfit, the downtrodden. Mr. Bates, Mr. Branson, Edna, even Charlie Grigg. She writes Mr. Branson, tells him things that his mother might tell him. To take care, remember to write to her, to send pictures of Miss Sybbie as she grows. She gives him words of encouragement, tells him that he must find his own way, that there is no shame in that, and that Lady Sybil would be proud of him. She debates on how to sign the letter, on whether to sign "Sincerely Yours" or something less formal. She settles on "Fondly." For she is fond of Tom. Quite fond indeed.

She writes another letter, not as long or as detailed. Not nearly as complex in its language but not too childish either. She writes to Miss Sybbie of how she, too traveled away from her homeland to a strange land, made new friends, and settled into a new home. She tells her that she will be all right. That she will make new friends and meet her American cousins and that a new land can be very exciting. She encourages Miss Sybbie to write to her and Mr. Carson. To practice her letters the way Mr. Carson taught her. She writes her a story or two of her mother, things that she hopes the girl will etch on her heart to take with her wherever she goes.

Then there is a letter for Anna, the one that she cannot help but somehow feel is hers. Perhaps not by birth, but hers just the same. Though they are not moving far, though she will still see Anna on Sundays and whenever they make time, she writes to her. Puts words on paper that she say cannot aloud. Words of adoration, dare she say of love, love a mother has for her child. Elsie tells her that if she had a daughter, she would wish her to be like Anna. To be kind and strong, intelligent and loyal. Elsie pauses a moment, lifts her pen, and thinks. Sometimes she feels that the young woman only comes to her in times of trouble. Then Elsie knows that has made it this way; it is the nature of her job, she should not appear overly partial, though she knows that she has done a poor job at that. She knows that she has shown Anna more affection than the others, but it is done now and she doesn't care; she cannot help the feelings that she has for the girl.

She puts the pen back to the paper, begins to write once again. She writes encouraging words, tells Anna that she is strong enough to face the slings and arrows of life. That she has faced so much already, more than any woman her age should. That she wishes she could take some of the burden from her, carry it. That if she could erase the pain she has been caused she would. Elsie assures her that children will come in due time, when Providence is ready. That Anna must hold fast to that. Tells her that she has recommended Miss Baxter to replace her as housekeeper not because Anna cannot do the job but because she hopes for Anna live and breathe beyond the walls of the Abbey. That a life in service is indeed a noble profession but one for her generation, no longer one for Anna's. That she wants Anna and Mr. Bates to leave service behind, wants them to buy their hotel and live their dream. That she wants to see them happy. That happiness is all a mother ever wishes for her children.

As Elsie Hughes finishes her letters, she stacks them neatly. The only one that she will deliver personally will be the one to Her Ladyship. The others will be distributed in the post and the two to Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie she will discreetly leave on his nightstand. She will tuck Anna's letter away in the young woman's coat pocket in hopes that she will not find it until she arrives home later that evening. Hopes that she will read it in private. Hopes that they will not speak of it; that only a glance, a look will be all the acknowledgement that passes between them.


	25. Future

Proverbs 31: 25-28

She is clothed with strength and dignity;  
she can laugh at the days to come.  
She speaks with wisdom,  
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.  
She watches over the affairs of her household  
and does not eat the bread of idleness.  
Her children arise and call her blessed

Tom's day has been a long one what with the cleaning of his office, readying it for its new occupant. Hoping that Tom will change his mind, Mary has not been the most willing of tenants, but she has taken to the place like a duck to water and seems a natural behind the large oak desk, he thinks. He wonders what Matthew would think to find her there, pouring over maps, ledgers, and contracts; farmers and workmen bustling in and out of her office all day. Tom knows that he would be proud; knows that Sybil would be astonished. Tom shrugs out of his coat, tosses it across his bed and begins removing his cuff links, places them on the table beside his bed and sees two letters leaned against his wife's picture. He picks them up and notices that they have no address, no postmark, and that the envelopes are not sealed. One bears his name and the other the name of his daughter.

Tears fill his eyes as he reads. He has expected her to retire, to leave the Abbey behind, and make her home at the guesthouse on Brouncker Road. When he heard the news of their engagement, he went to her, kissed her cheek, wished her every happiness; he even shook Mr. Carson's hand, saw a smile wriggle free from the butler's lips. What he has not expected is her letter and the sentiment contained within its pages. She is wishing him happiness and Godspeed. Telling him that he is highly valued, that he deserves every good thing, and that he must go as far as luck and God will allow. That Lady Sybil will be with him wherever he settles and that Downton will always be his home no matter where he lays his head. She tells him that he should not close himself off to love, that he deserves to find someone worthy of him. That though she is leaving, retiring with Mr. Carson, she is but a letter away should he need anything. Through watery eyes, Tom reads the rest of the letter, folds, and tucks it away. Mrs. Hughes is the closest thing he has to a mother at Downton and he is thankful; he hopes that he can make her proud. Hopes that his future can bear out her hopes and dreams for him.

It is very late when the Bates arrive home at the end of the day. Her Ladyship hosted a dinner party and the guests departed late. Anna is very tired and wants nothing more than to go to bed as she removes her coat and hangs it on the peg near the door. She stops as she notices something falling from the coat's pocket; a letter floats to the floor, landing beside her feet. She bends, picks it up, and finds her name on the envelope. Immediately she recognizes the script.

"Anna, are you coming?" John calls from their bedroom.

"Yes, I'll be just a moment," she answers as she settles into a chair and begins reading.

She takes in every word from the woman who has been more a mother to her than own. The woman who has stood by her through every hardship when her own mother only stood by a man who tried to degrade her, who forced her from her home, from her mother and sister with his advances and his touches. With every word, Anna realizes the depth of Elsie Hughes love for her. The confession of her wish for a daughter like her, the desire to take her burdens from her. Anna thinks of her own mother staying with a man who touched her, gawked at her, and did her harm. How she stays with him to this day. Then she thinks of Mrs. Hughes who found her that night. How anguished she was, how she tended her, kept her secrets, comforted her. How she drew her close when John was imprisoned, held her to her bosom, cried with her, and told her that she was highly valued; Anna knows now that she was telling her that she loved her.

Pressing the letter to her heart Anna shakes her heart and feels a little guilty. Guilty for the times that she has only gone to this woman because she has been in times of crisis rather than just to talk. Gone to seek counsel rather than enjoy a spot of tea. She takes the letter and reads once again. She finds the charge, the only thing that Elsie demands of her. It is the thing that all mothers demand of their children, the only real thing that they ever demand, the only thing that they ever want for their children; the promise of a better life. It is in that moment, that Anna knows what she and her husband must do, what their path must be. To honor a mother's wishes.

The next morning Anna passes Mrs. Hughes in the servants' corridor. She does not mention the letter, does not want to embarrass the very private woman who poured her heart out on its pages. As they pass, Anna with tears in her eyes, reaches out and catches Mrs. Hughes' hand squeezing tightly. She smiles in acknowledgement and sees the look of love and approval on the older woman's face. A moment between mother and daughter sealed. Anna releases her hand and they continue on their way; each to their own futures, separate, but forever intertwined.


	26. Simple

Though they've spent most of their lives working in a fine house with precious things, things of gold, silver, and platinum; things made of crystal and the finest china and things that are deemed rare and irreplaceable, it is the simple things of life that they appreciate now. They reflect upon the things that are truly rare that are truly to be treasured. The feeling of the grass that spreads beneath her feet in the summer, peaking up between her toes when she leaves her shoes in the cottage and walks outside in bare feet. He no longer chastises her for walking out with her feet bare, does not fret over her bruising them on a pebble or a stone, but instead he sometimes joins her now, enjoys the sunshine on his legs, the tops of his feet, and the sweet grass tickling his toes. He is a younger man, perhaps not in years, but in spirit. Because of her.

She relishes the days that he is content to sit with her in their swing, his arm around her, a book open, his voice caressing her ear as he reads. He reads to her of poetry, gardening, sport, and history; she has even convinced him to read the gothic novels she loves so well. They lend themselves to his sense of showmanship as he plays the parts for her. She treasures these moments; and other moments, leaned in to him, the book closed and he is sleeping, the little sounds he makes of which he is unaware. The way his eyebrows dance in the breeze of the summer's day; the way he tugs her close in his slumber.

The hands accustomed to polishing the finest of silver and handling the most delicate crystal, now touch and caress his wife. Hands that gently grasps hers, folding her small one into his as they walk through the field of purple wildflowers. It is his hand that holds the flannel used to mop her brow when she is ill; his hand that she reaches for in the darkest of the storm. It is his hand that combs through her hair as she drifts to sleep at night and his hand that she feels across her hip when she awakes with the morning light.

Her voice still delights him, the rolling and reeling melody of it. The way she says his name when she is angry with him reminds him of their days in service, the young housekeeper, the fiery Scotswoman who knocked him down a peg or two. Something no one else dared to do. The way she says his name when she is happy, the care she takes to roll the 'r', purring low and deep. Her voice is the last thing he hears at night, a gentle chorus of adoration and devotion she whispers to him, her eyes dancing. Her voice is the first thing that he wants to hear each morning, the sweet refrain of his beloved's song.

The simple things. Not silver or gold, platinum or crystal but love, contentment, and touch. The things people cannot buy. The simple things that make Charles and Elsie Carson rich beyond measure.


	27. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little something based on a discussion on Tumblr about what might have happened when Carson told Mrs. Hughes about his time on the stage.

He makes sure that she has the first servings of what Daisy brings from the kitchen, puts the best piece of bread on her plate, and passes it to her. He hazards a small look in her direction and she looks at him, nods and smiles, and accepts his offering. She quietly thanks him and reaches to butter a piece of bread, places it on his plate. A simple act but in it she tells him that she has forgiven him. Again. He doesn't know why he does this thing. This penitential cycle in reverse. The penance first, the act of contrition, the offering. Simply expecting her to receive it without explanation, without the overt acknowledgment of his sin against her. And yet she does accept it, offers him absolution and it makes him feel worse. He needs to do this the right way. He needs to confess.

He leans over slightly, asks if she might have a moment after they finish supper. This thing that he has said to her is gnawing at him. The thing that she does not know about him, that he has kept a secret, makes what he said to her even worse because he is a hypocrite. He called her a woman of no standards. Well, not in those exact words, but might as well have done. He looks down at his food and he's gone off it. He folds his hands in his lap, clears his throat. She looks up at him. Sweetly asks if he is all right, if he needs anything. He does. He needs to confess, needs for her to know who and what he really is.

She meets him in his pantry, he closes the door and runs a hand through his hair. He's worried. Worried that she will think him a fool, less than honorable. How could she not after what he is about to tell her, after what he is about to confess. Only four others know. One is with the angels and two others have so many of their own problems that he doubts they even remember his shame.

She looks to him expectantly. Watches as he mops his brow with his handkerchief.

"Mr. Carson, if this is about earlier," she begins, "you needn't trouble yourself. You need not know when I visit Grantham House if it will lead to this much distress."

Oh, Christ. She thinks that he's still worried about that. He is but not really, he knows that her reputation is impeccable; that she has the most sterling reputation of any woman upstairs or down save Mrs. Crawley perhaps. He knows that she is only trying to help a fallen woman, a woman who was once one of hers, one of her girls. He should know that she cannot just turn off the fact that she cares for those who were in her charge, like he turns off the tap.

No, this is about him. Not her.

"No, Mrs. Hughes. This isn't about that," he says, before he stumbles again, fumbles for the words because it is about that. About what he said to her. "I mean to say, I am sorry for what I said. You are not a woman of low standards. You most certainly are not. And I had no right to say that because….I am afraid that I, I am…..I was a man of low standards once and I thought that you ought to know that."

She stares at him dumbfounded. Was it not a few years ago, that he stood in her sitting room looking like a lost puppy when she told him he was a man of honor and integrity? What does he mean?

"What are you speaking of Mr. Carson? I am afraid that I don't understand," she asks as she clasps her hands together tightly in front of her.

He motions for her to sit and she takes a seat in the chair that she always sits in when they share a sherry in the evenings. He sits across from her and he doesn't know where to begin except to simply come out with it.

"Mrs. Hughes, I have no right to have said that to you because it isn't true and because as I say, I was once a man of low standards. I should have told you before but, I was….am a hypocrite. I have hidden behind standards and rules for most of my life except for a time when I was a young man." He watches as she listens intently to him, her knuckles gone white because her fingers are clasped so tightly together. She wants to say something but she doesn't; she senses that he needs to finish this, that he needs to confess, needs absolution. "You see Mrs. Hughes, I once lived the life of a theatre performer, I sang and danced. Performed like a fool for strangers. Sang my bloody head off, told jokes, juggled pins. I moved from theatre to theatre, dance hall to dance hall. I was not the man I am now."

"Mr. Carson, I never imagined," she says, reaching out to rest her hand on his, which rests on his knee.

"No, I've kept that part of my life hidden. But before the war, my stage partner, a man named Charlie Grigg showed up asking for money, I put him up at the Grantham Arms and then he began asking for food and I stole, feed him out of the kitchen. He asked for money, but I didn't give him any. He came here to the house one day, threatening to blackmail me…." he continues before she interrupts.

"…..but no one mentioned….." she says as her fingertips squeeze his hand tightly.

"…..no, no one mentioned his coming here. But Anna, Mr. Bates, Lady Sybil, and Lord Grantham were there," he continues. "Lord Grantham paid him and told him never to return." He drops eyes; he cannot look at her. "I am ashamed Mrs. Hughes," he says quietly. "Ashamed of my past, ashamed of being a hypocrite, ashamed of the words that I spoke to you."

A long moment passes. Silence hangs heavy in the air around them before she speaks.

"Mr. Carson, a kind and wise man once asked me what thepoint of living would be if we didn't let life change us?," she says softly. He looks up to her and finds kind eyes. "It sounds like to me, that you learned that was not the life for you, but there is no reason to be ashamed of your past."

"But," he protests before he feels her hand squeeze his again gently.

"Now, no more of this Mr. Carson," she says firmly.

"But what I said to you….." he begins again. She hears the anguish in his voice, sees it in his eyes and she remembers the song he sang for her, of the maid stealing his heart away.

"I forgive you, Mr. Carson. I forgive you. I know that you didn't mean it," she says, soothing his hand.

He knows that she does forgive him. This time and every other time. He vows he will not push her away. He has confessed to her, confessed his sins past and present, and she has given her absolution.


	28. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a prompt from Tumblr in which the prompt is to write a 300 word drabble on a prompt involving a kiss. itssoinevitable requested "Exhausted Parent Kiss" so this is for her.

If there was one thing she hated, it was an atmosphere and he'd done his part to create it. Parents and their children clash, it is the natural order of things she reasoned. But as she readied for bed, her husband patiently awaiting her, she thought on all their children; all of them borrowed, but their children nonetheless.

Like all families, some children were easier than others like the sweet, gentle lad who'd fallen for the young kitchen maid. Others more difficult like the rebellious daughter who had fallen into shame and ruin. She'd tried to warn her off the dashing officer who'd wooed her with velvet lies and refused to claim their child.

There was the daughter who truly captured her heart. The delicate, fair girl she watched grow to womanhood; kind, devoted, and strong. How her heart has broken more times than she could count over things that if she could reverse time and take them back, she would.

Then there was the son. Tall, handsome and regal, confident. The perfect successor to his father. So bitter of spirit and angry, he was sharp thorn in his father's flesh. At odds again, the son challenging at every turn, an exchange of harsh words. The son's tongue striking like lightening, the father's voice booming like thunder causing all present to scatter from their presence. All but her. She was left to soothe their wounds, to nurse both her man and her son.

She slipped into bed next to her husband to find him fast asleep, exhausted from his battle today. She sighed, thinking of the children that they've shared together, the battles they've fought, won and lost, and the exhaustion etched across his face. She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. A salve to heal his wounds.


End file.
